


Chips and Blood Sacrifice

by brightephemera



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Chips - Freeform, Friendship, Gen, Human Sacrifice Mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24679138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightephemera/pseuds/brightephemera
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley catch up after very different experiences with the local civilization.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 5





	Chips and Blood Sacrifice

Aziraphale was sprinting. So were his dozen armed pursuers. None of them were very happy with this circumstance.

The location was in a place lush and hot and crisscrossed by a network of raised flagstone rows, marvels of precision engineering, which was in turn rumored to be sprinkled in the blood of humans, supposedly the finest available.

He had not anticipated that last detail when he came here.

He snapped his fingers and a ramp materialized to the next level, some twelve feet above the roads. He snapped again before the pursuers got there and the ramp vanished. The soldiers, suddenly disoriented, began to mill about struggling to remember why they’d been so excited.

Aziraphale, still staring over his shoulder, ran chest first into somebody.

“Oh, I almost had them,” Crowley said irritably. Fire danced off his fingertips.

Aziraphale bounced away. “I just helped them arrange a fresh start,” he said. “With a no human sacrifice policy.”

“Ah, replace them with effigies, right? I wondered why the runnels weren’t tracing out the rude word. I’ll have to try it later with something a bit less…massacre-y.” Crowley shrugged.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Aziraphale.

“Human sacrifice? That’s uncommonly ghoulish of you.”

Crowley had been responsible for most of the ghoulishness of Aziraphale’s life. Aziraphale cleared his throat. “No. Our…arrangement. I was just thinking, staying out of one another’s way is all good and well, opposite numbers and all that. But we don’t have to be opposite numbers all the time.”

Crowley's voice dropped into a pit. His eyes stared back out of it. “You mean we should start annoying other people?”

“No! Just the opposite.”

Interested monitors, of which there were none, might have noticed the slightest lessening of tension in response. “What, once a century you take off your wings and I cover up my eyes and we talk like we’re not pretending to not be talking?”

“Well…” Aziraphale squirmed…“yes. Just make it formal.”

“Won’t Gabriel notice?”

“He’s been more hands-off since annunciating the Conception. I think it went to his head.”

“Won’t the hordes of hell notice?”

“I don’t know. How confident are you in your lurking skills?”

“My lurking skills are second to none,” Crowley said defensively. “Don’t put our inevitable downfall on me.”

“Our!…you must admit this was convenient. Me with the civilization and you with the senseless savagery.”

“Oh, it was nothing, really,” said Crowley, as if flattered. “I mean, who would take ‘I bet the slaves could give a bit more' and turn it into a blood ritual?”

Aziraphale glared at the unwelcome and excessively evil diversion.

“Once or twice a century,” he said with asperity, “we do our opposed jobs in the same place for once, stay for a proper cuppa, and then I’m not your concern and you’re not my nemesis.”

Crowley peered sidelong. “Nemeses live longer,” he said seriously.

Aziraphale at this point was faced with a choice between two options. One was to agree with Crowley, think up a goodbye, jolly him along, steel himself for goodbye, then dazzle him with virtue, _say goodbye_ , and walk out of his life. The other was to be foolish beyond description with someone who had never to Aziraphale’s knowledge suffered a fool at all, in as yet unforeseen times, and places, and levels of contemplated risk. Only one of these options made him feel like he was in freefall without his wings.

“I could get a nemesis anywhere,” he said airily. “However, a, um, that is, not to say anything too extreme, but the danger is purely calculated, and really, we’ve come this far, and all things considered it would be something of a waste, so I, I don’t especially want a nemesis at the present time.”

Crowley stared. It was a disquieting stare, a thorough one. He didn’t do things in half measures except when he did for the sake of their détente.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting a beverage that doesn’t involve human blood,” he said, just as seriously.

“Yes, well. I’m certain an up-and-coming civilization can manage a decent cuppa.”

“Cuppa what, I truly don’t know.” Crowley looked out toward the baffled soldiers. “Let me go first.”

Aziraphale straightened his white robes and strolled into the city with only the smallest confounding of the guards. Crowley pulled a wooden chair into the sun by the stone causeway and splayed in the sun, basking. Aziraphale took a seat in the shade. Crowley gestured for a ceramic plate heaped with fried potato shapes.

(It is thought among certain persons, who remain nameless to avoid accusations of frivolity, that food is the ultimate expression of mortal continuity, and the occasional discreet distribution of recipes is simply strengthening civilization as a whole. One sponsor’s sweet tooth may be responsible for dozens of chocolatiers around the world, including a few who don’t yet know what cocoa is. Their attempts, like civilization’s shadier moments, are best left unexplored.)

“What did they want with you, anyway?” said Crowley.

“Ah. I blessed their crops. Just to get things off to a good start.”

“That doesn't sound too offensive.”

“I did it _instead_ of doing a sacrifice. I was hoping they could just skip to the celebration part. They have these clever fabric clappers…” Crowley was staring a disappointed stare.

“Witch,” he said dryly.

“More or less,” said Aziraphale. “Hence the constabulary.”

“That's not a word. Is that a word?”

“Perhaps someday. In the angelic tongue.”

“Oh, wouldn't you love coining one. Very well. Out of one another's way until we're not.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Starting…” his manner got casual…“a few hours from now, I imagine?”

“Well, that seems only fair.”

Crowley did once attempt to work out what other non-food items were on Aziraphale’s quixotic priority list. It is unsettling to be placed on the dinner table next to the gravy, even if it's good gravy. Aziraphale had no mother nor responsible counselor, so those were out; the higher angels seemed to be busy forming templates of middle management that would drive any self-respecting angel to fall; the Almighty wasn't exactly accessible; and all other classes of beings were mortal. All but the demons, who were bastards to a man. Even him, Crowley. Maybe potatoes were just easier to cope with. Potatoes, kindness, and an only slightly illusioned demon. It had lasted the angel five thousand years, somehow. He must really like potatoes.

What Crowley did not say was that being on that priority list was the most bizarre forehanded compliment he had ever been served.

Aziraphale did once attempt to work out how Crowley's lightest suggestion got so consistently botched, or worse, literally interpreted, whenever he got close to humans. It was infernal reflex, Aziraphale suspected: see human, tease out worst in human. It would be enough to shake the faith of one who wasn't Good by definition.

And yet Crowley tempted, then gave mischievous constructive criticism of Aziraphale’s gentlest miracles, without ever acknowledging a contradiction. Crowley moved in ways more mysterious than he would ever for legal and regulatory reasons admit. Keeping an eye on him seemed only responsible. Whether Crowley liked it or not, which was a condition Aziraphale could not presently answer. Crowley would be the first to say that the front lines engendered odd alliances.

(Which humans would almost certainly turn into a world war. It really was best to keep him clear of philosophical statements…next time. Yes, he would be broken beneath the wheel and it would all be in order, as planned, as spoken by the Metatron and all proper authorities…just not yet.)

What Aziraphale did not say was that this complexity was not beyond him. Not after all this time.


End file.
